


Sagebrush and Sandstone

by ignipes



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-23
Updated: 2006-07-23
Packaged: 2017-10-07 05:43:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They can't save everyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sagebrush and Sandstone

They're too late.

He knows it before he stops the car, knows it before they push the doors open and climb out. Hinges creak and boots hit the ground and their guns are in hand, but they're too late. He can smell blood mingled with the sagebrush and afternoon heat, taste it in the windblown dust on his tongue.

The shack is gray, weathered, looks like it'll topple over in the next stiff wind, and the door doesn't even have a knob, much less a lock. Dean goes in first; he nudges the door open, peers cautiously through the crack. Sam is right behind him, close enough that Dean can tell he's holding his breath.

There's only one room, and it only takes him about ten seconds to see all that there is to see. The girl is still tied to the bed, and from the looks of it she's been dead for some time. The old man -- what's left of him, and there isn't much -- died more recently. It's his blood that taints the air, stains the floor and pools in the dust, drips through the cracks between the boards.

Sam makes a quiet noise, not quite a gasp and not quite a gag, and Dean half-turns in the doorway. _Go wait outside._ He doesn't say it, doesn't try to stop Sam when he pushes by and steps into the room. _You don't have to see this._

It's not like Sam would listen. They're not kids anymore.

"It's gone," Sam says. His voice sounds strange, too loud and too soft, and he's looking everywhere except at the old man's mangled body on the floor. "It's gone again."

Two weeks chasing the fucker across the desert, and that's the only name they have: _it._

They've never hunted anything like it before, don't know of anybody else who has. They forget, sometimes, that there are still things like _it_ out there, things they can't even name, that come out of hibernation or hiding once every decade or two, slinking into the sunlight from whatever dark and disgusting place they call home, hunting and killing and feeding and vanishing again.

Whatever the fuck _it_ is.

Dean looks down, watches flies buzz around the old man's corpse, notices the faint sketch of tracks in the dust on the floor, rat or lizard or some other small, creeping thing.

It's strange, he thinks. You can drive across the desert and swear there's nothing alive for miles, nothing except sagebrush and cactus, sharp and scrawny in the sun, but when something dies--

There's a flutter of noise by the open window; they both spin around, guns raised and ready to fire. It's a crow, just an ordinary black bird, and it stares at them with one mad yellow eye before taking flight again.

\--then something dies, and suddenly it's crawling with life.

Dean tucks his gun into his jeans. "Let's get the hell out of here."

~

Sam keeps the window rolled down as they drive back to Escalante. The wind is hot and full of sand, loud enough that they can't hear anything except the air rushing by.

Dean drives carefully, his hands tight on the wheel. The road is a bitch, an unimproved obstacle course of smooth stone alternating with pockets of sand, lined with cactus and shattered boulders.

"Fucking pathetic excuse for a road," he says.

Sam glances at him, a quick look that could be a question or could be agreement, but he doesn't say anything.

Low in the sky, the sun bleeds across the landscape: water-stained cliffs, slickrock canyons like open wounds, too many thorns and too much sky. There are wisps of clouds on the horizon and long shadows on the ground, and he doesn't like that he can't remember how far it is to the paved highway.

He reaches out with his right hand, and Sam gives him his sunglasses. Through the lenses the desert is burnished and orange, softer, easier to handle, but he can still feel the sun burning his eyes.

~

"You want the first shower?"

Sam doesn't answer right away. He drops his bag on the floor, sits down heavily on one of the beds, kicks off his shoes. There's dust on his jeans and blood on his shoes, and he stares at his feet for several seconds before looking up at Dean.

"Nah," he says. He shakes his head slowly, like it requires some real thought. "You go ahead."

Dean hesitates. There are words caught in his throat. _We did everything we could._ Things he knows he should say, things he thinks Sam wants to hear. _We can't save everyone._ But his mouth is dry and parched, and Sam is still looking down at his shoes like they've got all the fucking answers written on the soles. _Hey, man, we've seen worse._ Dean kicks off his boots, strips off his shirt, goes into the bathroom.

The water is hot, almost scalding, just the way it should be. He steps into the spray and suddenly he feels too exhausted to stand, like he could sink down to the cracked tiles and fall asleep right there, oblivious until the water runs cold. No real excuse for it, either, not after two weeks of searching and not even a hint of a fight, no wounds except a flat tire and a sunburn, nothing gained except another pair of bodies, another room soaked in blood, another trail lost in the dust and wind.

The door opens, and the shower curtain billows inward. A moment later Sam steps in behind him. He wraps his arms around Dean's waist, presses his face to Dean's neck, and mutters, "Changed my mind."

Dean turns around, manages to mumble, "Thought you--" before Sam shoves him against the wall and cuts him off with a kiss, with hands sliding through his hair and over his shoulders, cold tile at his back and hot water on his face, and Sam -- _yeah, thought you might_, Sam is taking up too much space, surrounding him without even trying, pressing into him like he wants to crawl inside Dean's skin.

He closes his eyes, reaches up to tangle his hands in Sam's hair, and there's nothing in the world except water and skin, quiet sounds never meant to be words and dust washing down the drain.

~

When he wakes he's lying on his back and Sam is beside him, wrapped around him like an octopus, unmoving and sound asleep.

The night is quiet and cool, and through the open window he can hear the motel's sprinkler system chugging away on its tiny patch of lawn.

It's strange, Dean thinks, strange to think about all that empty space out there. Outside their bed, outside this room and this motel, surrounding the town and every road, and even in the dark it feels like it must be full of _something_.

He closes his eyes, exhales slowly, disentangles himself momentarily from Sam's arms and rolls onto his side.

Sam shifts as Dean curls toward him, mumbles something that sounds a lot like _but it's purple it's okay_, and frowns without opening his eyes.

"Go back to sleep," Dean says.

"'Kay."

Dean almost smiles. Sam only agrees that quickly when he's already asleep.

He inhales slowly, deeply, and somewhere beneath the stale odors of cigarette smoke and old carpet, under the comforting smell of soap and Sam's clean skin, he recognizes sage and newly-cut grass, soft and fresh scents carried in on the breeze that brushes by the curtains.

It's strange, he thinks, strange that there's always something awake, something alive, even in the desert.


End file.
